


When Memory Fades

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Sam, Curtain Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:04:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam’s wall breaks, his mind continuously erases his recent memories when he sleeps to keep visions of hell from his conscious self. Today is day 1156.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Memory Fades

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I claim only, and all of the errors.
> 
> A/N: Written for the LJ OhSam hurt/comfort challenge for the prompt: Reverse psychic amnesia: as in, you remember who you are, who your brother is-- but you've forgotten everything else about the world. Let me know if the prompt was yours and I’ll credit you.

Sam blinks sleep from his eyes and opens them to find a light grey wall in front of him. Soft, warm air comes in contact with his neck and he tenses the split second he realizes that there’s a human presence against his back. He scans the room quickly, noting blinds over square windows with light filtering in, refracting on particles of dust. A cluttered desk complete with a computer on top occupies the corner followed by a dresser with a pair of socks falling out of the top drawer. A framed Styx poster hangs next to the closet. Put together, these objects exude signs of habitation and Sam can’t help but wonder why he doesn’t recollect falling asleep here.

He doesn’t remember getting a concussion, or being possessed. He definitely doesn’t remember falling asleep in this room with someone. Sam’s heart beats faster as his breath gets shallower; the realization that he doesn’t know where he is sinks in and based on past experiences he’s now verging towards the realm of a panic attack.

He takes in a deep, reassuring amount of air, and counts to ten as he exhales. Sam’s cognizant of the fact that he doesn’t have restraints on his wrists as he moves to sit up and further assess the situation, when a warm arm snakes its way across his chest, fingers splaying over his tattoo. Sam doesn’t need to look down to know it belongs to his brother. The edge of his ring digs into Sam’s skin as Dean rubs gentle circles across Sam’s chest. 

“Hey buddy.”

Sam can feel the reverberations emanating from Dean’s vocal cords through his own body.

“Dean?” He asks, using his brother’s one syllable name to emphasize the questions that are rolling around in his brain.

“I know, Sam. I know. But man, it’s Saturday, and it’s my day off, so if can you hold off all those thoughts in that gigantor brain of yours for a few more hours,” Dean mumbles. When Sam doesn’t give him a response he pushes Sam’s back into his front and whispers, “Please, Sammy—just another hour or two. Then I promise to answer everything.”

Sam’s muscles don’t relax though as he ponders what Dean said.

“Uhm…Dean. What do you mean it’s your ‘day off’? Since when do we take days off? You know, people to be saved, monsters to be hunted, family motto and all that jazz?”

“I said later, Sam,” Dean replies, his tongue starting to lick the soft hairs and skin at the apex of Sam’s spine and he forces himself to be placated.

Dean’s hand travels in ever widening circles across Sam’s body, and soon it’s wormed underneath the elastic of Sam’s boxer briefs. Sam angles his head to find he’s wearing black underwear; it’s not a complete surprise, but he doesn’t remember putting them on which is slightly disconcerting. However, he’s soon distracted by the sight of Dean’s wrist disappearing into his shorts. Coupled with the feeling of Dean petting his dick lightly, Sam’s body replaces worry with horny and he rolls his hips forward.

Dean teases him for awhile, stroking with just under the right amount of pressure, only paying attention to the head every seventh pass or so. Sam’s attempts to spur Dean into a faster rhythm by speeding up his thrusts fail miserably and Dean removes his hand from his dick entirely in favor of cupping Sam’s balls close to his body. While Sam definitely enjoys the additional pressure on his sack combined with the feel of Dean’s tongue pressing into the muscles connecting his neck to his shoulder blade, the need to come emanates from his spine, building quickly throughout his body.

Sam pulls out an almost voiceless “Dean, please,” but Dean simply rolls his balls from the heel of his hand to his fingertips and back. Sam decides if Dean doesn’t want to finish him off, he’ll get the job done and he moves his hand to join Dean’s underneath his shorts. Dean makes an unhappy noise against Sam’s neck and bites down hard.

“Fuck you, Dean,” Sam complains, “Get me off or stop biting.”

Dean mumbles something that sounds unsurprisingly like bitch, but allows Sam to pull his hand back onto his dick, fingers intertwined and Sam heaves a sigh of relief. He feels is own warm precome slide between their fingers, down towards his base and up again tracing a swollen vein to the tip and lightly across his slit. It only takes another few passes with the stimulation from two hands and a quick rhythm before Sam’s coming all over both of them and into his briefs.

After he returns to a more coherent state of consciousness he moves onto his side to face his brother. Familiar green eyes and black eyelashes framed with light freckles meet his own and Sam can’t help but smile. When Dean returns the expression, Sam’s surprised to see new wrinkles stemming from the corners of Dean’s eyes and mouth. He wonders when Dean acquired those; he can’t quite pinpoint his last memory of Dean before this morning, but Sam knows it must have been the night before, judging by their positions when he awoke.

“Morning, Dean,” Sam says before remembering that he hasn’t helped his brother out with his presumable erection. He moves his hand down only to find that Dean’s boxers are just as soaked, so he settles for kissing Dean instead. His brother lets him explore his mouth for another few minutes before pushing him away.

“Sammy, can you get us some washcloths? They’re in the bathroom through the door, top right cupboard,” Dean asks, voice gravely from what Sam can only imagine is a lack of sleep and coffee. He would have remembered receiving a blow job the night before.

Sam obliges, pushing hair out of his face and stumbles towards a door with a white sign made out of computer paper; Dean’s scrawled the word Bathroom in dark blue letters. Sam’s slightly amused, thinking maybe Dean’s marking that on the doors of places they crash so he doesn’t puke on the floor from a heavy night of drinking, until he enters the bathroom.

There’s a vast array of products ranging from toothbrushes to deodorant to hair gel and each one has a label with the word ‘Sam’ or ‘Dean’ on it. The drawers have been marked too and some are obviously in Sam’s handwriting. By now, he’s fucking freaked out, because he’s never seen this room in his life, yet the towels are on the top right, and apparently on the bottom left there are separate drawers for both cleaning supplies and lube.

He leans forward to check out his face in the mirror, making multiple expressions. Just like his brother, his eyes have obtained creases in the corners, and his hair seems to have slightly receded in the front, giving him the start of widow’s peak. 

Sam turns the water in the sink to hot and cleans himself up, wrapping a towel around his bottom half; his boxer briefs need to become acquainted with the washing machine that Sam’s certain exists due to the presence of Clorox wipes on the counter. Sam feels overwhelmed all of a sudden—he’s stuck with no recent memories and Dean’s clearly developed OCD.

He stalks out of the bathroom with a towel for Dean and renewed determination to make his brother tell him what the hell is going on, but when he enters the bedroom he finds Dean on his back, softly snoring. Sam hates waking up Dean; even in the best of circumstances it usually ends with a knife to his throat.

He quietly pads over to the dresser, which upon closer inspection has drawers with his name written across, and he opens them to find fresh pairs of briefs, sweat pants, tee-shirts and hoodies. After dressing he stops at the bedside table where three of his favorite books sit spines facing towards him. He runs his fingers over each of them and then picks up Lord of the Rings. His hand engulfs the book as he opens the bedroom door in search of food and coffee.

The moment he pushes the door knob forward, Sam’s met with an overly enthusiastic Doberman jumping on him and licking every patch of skin on Sam’s body that its tongue can find. He closes the door quickly so that the dog won’t have to face Dean’s wrath and bends down to check the tag on its collar.

“Axel, huh?” He states.

The dog wags the bud of his tail enthusiastically and sits down.

“You’re a good boy, Axel. Let’s see if I can’t find some food for you before my grump of a brother shoves you out of the house when he wakes up.”

Axel presses his face into Sam’s outstretched hand and Sam spends a few moments scratching the dog behind his ears and underneath his throat before continuing his search for food.

Just like the bedroom and bathroom, the rest of the house comes complete with tags on every cabinet and closet, and maps taped down to the counter of what Sam assumes is the local neighborhood. There are brightly colored X’s over multiple locations including the park, the hospital, and the grocery store.

Sam’s surprised to find that there’s a separate container entitled ‘Axel’s food—2 cups in the morning, 1 in the evening’. He’s relieved to know that if Dean wrote the instructions, he’s unlikely to make Sam drop the dog at a shelter in a few hours. After feeding Axel, Sam raids the fridge to find it fully stocked, and pulls out eggs, cheddar cheese, and zucchini to make an omelet and puts water on the stovetop for a pot of coffee.

Following the demolition of a satisfactory breakfast he wanders around the house checking for the presence of salt lines, warding symbols and strategically placed demon traps. All are in place. Clearly, monsters still exist and Dean is still concerned about them. 

Sam takes a quick drink of holy water that he found on the counter and picks up a silver knife to draw blood from his arm, until he sees the scars covering both of his forearms. They’re all obviously from a blade, ranging from about a millimeter to a few inches. He decides to postpone that particular test until after he questions Dean.

He moves to the couch with his book, and Axel jumps up next to him, resting his head on Sam’s lap. Sam notices there’s a bookmark about halfway through the novel, but he doesn’t remember having read Lord of the Rings in years, so he takes it out and starts at the beginning, absent-mindedly petting Axel as he waits for Dean to awaken.

Around ten-thirty according to the clock on the wall, Sam hears the shower start, and not more than twenty-minutes later Dean strolls into the living room, fully dressed with his hair spiked. When he sees Sam and Axel on the couch together he breaks into a rare Dean smile.

“How’re my two favorite boys?” Dean asks, still grinning.

“I fed the dog, and there’s coffee in the kitchen. And then I want to know what the fuck is going on, Dean,” Sam replies.

Dean visibly deflates at Sam’s words, and heads into the kitchen with a tense “Thanks, Sammy.”

 

 

When Dean returns a few minutes later he’s got an extra-large sized cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of a few photo albums in the other. He dumps them unceremoniously in front of Sam.

“So, uhm, there’s really never a good way to break this to you,” He starts off, hand moving to rub at the back of his neck, and Sam can tell it’s going to be bad.

“Well, you know when you lost your soul?” He starts.

Sam nods.

“After we put it back in, Death put in a wall to keep out your hell memories,” he continues “But, it only sort of works, ‘cause any time you have a hell memory, it seems to wipe all of your short term ones.”

That’s not as bad as he thought, Sam thinks. “How often does that happen?” he asks out of pure curiosity. He doesn’t remember yesterday, so it must have been recently.

Dean looks away and clears his throat. “Pretty much every night,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice.

Sam arches his eyebrow and starts to get riled up, “Pretty much? I fucking lose all my memories almost every night, and you’re not even freaking out? We need to call Bobby, or Cas, or someone can help—”

Dean cuts him off, “We tried all of that Sam, but it’s not like it was yesterday. Well, it might seem like yesterday to you, but we’ve been living here like this for over three years. Three fucking years, and every single day, I explain the same damn thing over and over, so if could you just calm down for one goddamn day, I could use a fucking break man.” He takes a long drink from his coffee cup, and Sam can smell the whiskey from his place on the sofa.

Sam doesn’t want to calm down though, because Dean has all of his memories. Three years worth of unique moments that have been taken from Sam by a malfunctioning wall in his head. He shoots his brother a glare without responding, but picks up a photo album. Every picture is one of Sam, Dean, or Sam and Dean together. Some have Axel, and a few show Bobby in the background.

They all have numbers on them. He flips to the back of the most recent album. The last picture is entitled “Day 1155” and has a photo of Sam drinking what looks like a glass of champagne, smiling at the camera.

He goes backwards and sees more pictures of Dean and him, some playing in the park, others of Dean in a pair of green scrubs and a stethoscope. Back in the early days there are more pictures of Sam in restraints on the bed, of Dean making pained faces as he puts a silver knife against his ribs, a faint drop of blood always visible.

“You work at the hospital?” Sam asks, his tone slightly calmer than before.

“Yup.” Dean smiles at Sam. “I’m all responsible now, got a full time job as an Emergency Department nurse.”

“Wow, Dean. That’s great. But what about hunting? Don’t you miss it?” He asks sincerely. He never thought his brother would give up his shotgun full of salt and the open road.

“Nah, don’t do that anymore unless it’s close by. But I’m still saving people, and taking care of you. Those were the best parts of the job anyways.” He ruffles Sam’s hair in a moment of brotherly affection.

Sam points to a series of pictures where he’s got a gag in place, and tied to the bed. “I’m getting better, right?” he asks worriedly. “I mean, you don’t have to do that to me anymore?”

Dean raises his eyebrows suggestively, “Only if you want it, Sammy,” followed by a more sober, “Seriously though, you’re getting better every day. You’ve been better since I bought the house, better still since we bought Axel a few months ago.” They both pointedly look at the dog who is currently chewing on a bone in the far corner. He wags his tail when he realizes he’s the center of attention.

“It also helps that I learned how to ease you into waking up.”

Sam pulls his bitch look back into full force and asks “And what’s that supposed to mean, Dean?”

“Oh you know, you’re always less grumpy after a little morning stress relief. Whatever works, right Sam?” Dean at least has the courtesy to blush.

“Do you provide that service to all your patients when they wake up, Dean?” Sam can’t help but taunt his brother.

“Jealous much? Go fuck yourself already, Sammy.” Dean leans forward to get up when Sam pushes him back down, his hands pinning Dean’s chest to the back of the couch.

“I’d prefer if you’d fuck me, big brother,” Sam responds.

Dean smirks. “I could get behind that.”

Sam groans, “I don’t have to be a partial amnesiac to know how awful that pun was.”

Sam can tell Dean is close to spouting out another proclamation about his hilarity, so he stops his brother in advance by straddling his hips and kissing him. It’s always been a good technique to shut Dean up.

He feels the hard lines of Dean’s body underneath him from his chest muscles, down his arms and stomach, and finally to his cock and his powerful thighs flexing beneath Sam’s ass. Sam stops for a moment, pulling a groan at the lack of contact from Dean as he gets up to take off his pants and briefs in one go. Dean gets with the program long enough to lift his pelvis off the cushions and pull his own jeans down to his knees. He’s not wearing underwear and his cock springs up against his flat stomach with an audible slap. Sam wonders if Dean’s dick is legitimately thicker than he remembers, or if it’s just a trick of his mind.

“Any other lube stashes besides the bathroom?” he asks Dean. There’s no way that Dean’s dick is fitting in him without some extra help. Sam may occasionally cut himself with a silver knife, or deliberately hunt down monsters, but he’s not a masochist when it comes to sex.

Dean coughs. “Uh, well, you might still have enough in your body from last night.”

Sam glares. “I fucking hate that I can’t remember that we had sex.”

“Me too, Sammy. Trust me, me too.” Then he grins, “Now get that sweet ass over here so I can check if it’s ready to go.”

Sam reluctantly turns around, letting Dean have access to his back side, and then he’s suddenly spread open with two fingers inside of him. He gasps at the intrusion, but Dean’s right, it doesn’t hurt, and he feels the remnants of lubrication easing Dean’s passage into his body. After a few moments he starts to push back against Dean in earnest, striving to get Dean’s fingertips pressing into his prostate every other thrust.

His brother decides after a couple minutes that he must be ready because removes his fingers and holds the base of his cock to guide it into Sam’s warm body. His insides grasp onto the head of Dean’s dick, and he sinks down inch by inch until he’s fully sitting in his brother’s lap. Dean’s hands find their way to Sam’s hips and he rolls them experimentally.

He wishes he could fully recall what movements drive his brother to the brink, but he can’t, so he starts up a fast rhythm, and soon Dean’s guiding his motions while thrusting up erratically. Sam jerks himself off and winds up coming all over his hand and the coffee table. He feels Dean empty his dick into his body with a particularly deep thrust, and then relaxes.

Sam lets Dean soften inside of him, before extricating himself from his brother’s body.

“I’m gonna go take a shower,” he states.

Dean nods in response, but doesn’t make a move to follow him.

 

When Sam gets out, he can’t find Dean anywhere, although Axel’s curled up in living room, and Sam has a moment of panic. What if Dean finally decided he’s too much work, and has traded in his broken brother for killing real monsters instead of the ones inside Sam’s head.He opens every door in the house to no avail, until he gets outside and finds Dean washing the Impala. He shouldn’t be surprised. Dean looks up.

“Feeling better, princess?”

“Real mature, Dean. And yes, I do feel cleaner.”

“Well, I’m just gonna finish up waxing baby here, and then I thought we’d head to the park for a walk. Dog’s got to get out sometime, else he goes crazy,” Dean says.

“Sounds good,” Sam replies, and can’t think of a time he felt this domestic. Even at Stanford he was always plagued with guilt from leaving Dean, and thoughts of hunting whenever a plausible case showed up in the newspaper.

He settles for reading Lord of the Rings, Axel curled at his feet, until Dean comes to collect him. Later that evening he finds a Polaroid of him on the couch, legs spread and face-deep in his book; the sunlight streaming through the back window makes it look as if he’s glowing.

 

After they’ve eaten dinner, Dean turns on the television to watch football, and Sam snuggles up next to his side.

“Hey Dean?”

“Yeah Sam?”

“I just wanted to say…thanks for everything.”

“Don’t worry about it. Nowhere I’d rather be than next to you,” Dean responds nonchalantly, but Sam can see the side of his brother’s mouth twitch, and his arm that’s not holding his beer comes down off the back of the couch to pull Sam closer to his body. Sam goes in easily.

Dean picks up the picture from the afternoon and hands it to Sam. “You want to put it in the memory book, or you want me to do it?”

“You do it.” Sam really doesn’t want to touch it right now. He doesn’t want to be reminded that tomorrow he’ll be sitting in the same position with his own personal ‘snapshots of his life’ journal and not remember today.

Dean’s fingers put it almost reverently within the plastic casing, and writes on the bottom ‘Day 1156’. He leans back into cushions where they fucked earlier and places a gentle kiss on Sam’s forehead.

Sam feels overwhelmed with emotion for his brother’s simple gesture, and knows he has to make Dean understand how he feels without a doubt, before the whole cycle starts again in the morning.

“Dean?” he asks again quietly.

“Hmm?”

“I might not remember tomorrow, but I want you to know, I love you.”

Sam expects Dean to gripe about not engaging in chick flick moments, but these last years must have hit his brother harder than he’s let on because when Dean turns to meet Sam’s eyes, he’s as serious as Sam’s ever seen him. “I’m in love with you too, Sam. And until I’ve gone senile and my memory fades, I’ll remember for the both of us.”

Dean entwines their fingers and leads him to their room where he pushes Sam down onto the slightly worn bed; Sam can’t help but put his life and memories into Dean’s hands and follow.


End file.
